


Flask Me No Questions

by Agent_24



Series: Fair Game Week 2020 [5]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Alcohol Withdrawal, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23113051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_24/pseuds/Agent_24
Summary: Clover’s always been...good at helping people. With his semblance, that is. Admittedly, he’s less confident in the emotional stability aspect of it, but he’ll give what he can, if he’s asked.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Series: Fair Game Week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661305
Comments: 9
Kudos: 131





	Flask Me No Questions

**Author's Note:**

> Day 6: Hurt/Comfort

“Earth to Clover,” Elm says, snapping her fingers in front of his face.

His back immediately straightens in a half-snap to attention before he frowns and waves her hand away. “What?”

“It’s your turn,” Elm tells him, motioning at their card game. Clover blinks and wonders when she’d finished her turn, but before he can start thinking over his next play, she says, “You’re barely paying attention.”

“I am,” he objects. 

Elm raises her brow. “You’ve been staring off into space for two minutes. Are you thinking about work? It’s supposed to be your day off.”

Clover taps his heel against the floor, apparently restless, and avoids her gaze for no good reason. “I wasn’t thinking about work.”

Elm leans back in her chair. The rec room is quiet in the post-lunch haze, with only a few lingering students and soldiers playing pool or darts or games on their Scrolls, which is why it seems so loud when Elm says, “What then, about Branwen?”

Clover looks at her sharply, feeling a bit of heat creep over his face as a few soldiers turn to look at them. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. “That obvious?” he asks. 

“It’s almost painful to watch.”

Clover snorts. “Aw, come on.”

Elm rolls her eyes. “You two are so into each other, it’s embarrassing, and you won’t even do anything about it.”

“Hey, these things take finesse,” Clover says with a grin, which turns a little flattered a moment later. “You think he’s into me?”

Elm shoots him a flat look. Instead of dignifying what she apparently deigns a dumb question with an answer, she says, “You should’ve invited him to play cards instead of daydreaming between turns.”

Clover purses his lips, pulling his Scroll out of his pocket. No messages (besides his work alerts, which he’s very purposefully not glancing at). “I did,” he admits. “All his assignments were early today, so I thought he might want to relax with us. Never got a reply back.”

“Relax with  _ us,” _ Elm huffs, disbelieving. 

_ “Okay,” _ Clover concedes, then drums his fingers on the table. “Maybe I should go see what he's up to.”

“You’re worse than I thought,” Elm tells him, then gapes as he rises from his seat. “You can’t even wait till we finish the game?”

He grins over his shoulder. “I’ll make it up to you?” he offers, then adds, a little wickedly, “I would’ve won, anyways.”

“You owe me lunch,” Elm calls after him, and Clover tosses her a lazy salute as he leaves the rec room.

The conversation leaves him feeling a little warm. It's not like he ever attempted to hide that he was attracted to Qrow, or that he enjoys the man's company a little too deeply for how long they'd known each other. And he doesn't make a habit of announcing his personal life to his colleagues, but he likes the idea of people knowing that he and Qrow are dancing around each other. It does a little something for his pride to know that Qrow’s interest isn’t exactly subtle, to know that others notice Qrow’s eyes on him. He likes the idea that maybe people aren't trying to push their  _ luck  _ with Qrow as much as they ordinarily would, considering their competition.

That's a selfish thought, he knows, and perhaps a little presumptuous. But still.

So maybe he whistles on his way to Qrow’s dorm. He’s only been there once before, when he’d stopped by to ask Qrow if he wanted to train, and he’s hoping he’ll get a similar response this time, a faint flush and a pretty smile that’ll send his heart skittering.

Instead, as he holds a fist up to Qrow’s door to knock, he gets the sound of shattering glass.

Alarmed, Clover beats on the door. “Qrow?!” he calls, alarmed. No answer; Clover pounds on the door one more time before glancing down at the keypad lock. Should he guess? Qrow might be hurt or sick…would it be too invasive to guess? Did it matter if his suspicions were right?  _ Could  _ he guess before the system locked him out?

Clover bites his lip so hard it hurts, listening for any sound coming from behind the door, anything to indicate movement. When none comes, he flicks his pin and then makes a terrible guess that’s so on the nose it has to fail; he keys in  _ 1313  _ and hopes their code generation systems hadn’t fallen to the same errors as the Beacon systems that generated Qrow’s license.

Much to his dismay, the door clicks.

_ Fuck’s sake,  _ he thinks absently, rushing in as the door slides open. “Qrow!” he says, then stops short. 

He sees the splintered mirror against the wall first but skims over it, and after a split second of panic he barely has time to process, he sees Qrow on the opposite side of the room, sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms folded on top of them, eyes wide in surprise. 

“How’d you get in here?” Qrow asks.

“I—” Clover starts, then looks him over, checking for blood. “Are you hurt?” 

“No,” Qrow answers, but pauses for a moment right after, the lines of his throat tightening before he drops his gaze. Then, softer, “No.”

Clover opens his mouth and shuts it, feeling a little foolish and a little vindicated at the same time, because Qrow isn’t bleeding or sick or collapsed, and because Qrow is very clearly not okay, too.

“The door was locked,” Qrow says, glancing up at him again.

Clover blinks, then feels shame color his cheeks dark. “I uh…made a lucky guess at your code,” he confesses, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not…the most secure, by the way.”

Qrow huffs and turns his face away, leaning his cheek against his arms. “Of course it’s not,” he mutters.

Clover glances over at the mirror again, wanting the story but afraid to push. The glass had shattered and fallen scattered over the floor, and in the midst of the mess is a flask, cap unscrewed and dripping what smells like stale whiskey.

He realizes abruptly that he’s been far more invasive than he’d originally thought. 

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” he murmurs, then clears his throat and corrects himself. “I mean, I did, but I…I was worried. I’ll get out of your hair.” 

He turns away, immediately thinking of a million better things he could’ve said and dismissing them just as quickly. He can’t pretend to know what kind of comfort Qrow needs, and pushing him into talking when he clearly wants alone time would just be— 

“Wait,” Qrow rasps. 

Clover stops again and looks back at him. Qrow visibly swallows, mouth twisting in a way that makes Clover wonder if he’s about to cry. Eventually, Qrow says tiredly, “If you’re going to burst into my room uninvited, you could at least follow through and sit with me.”

Clover blinks in surprise, tries to think of a response that sounds better than,  _ you want me here? You’re asking me to stay?  _ When he can’t, he crosses the room in silence and presses his back to the wall, sliding down to sit at Qrow’s side. He props an arm on each knee, leaning his head back against the wall so Qrow doesn’t feel stared at. And they stay quiet for a few minutes, one waiting, and one gathering himself.

After a long moment, Qrow mutters, “This fucking sucks.”

Clover glances at him, hesitant. “If you want to talk,” he offers gently, “I’ll listen.”

Qrow’s fingers tighten on his arms, knuckles going white before he takes a deep, slow breath and forces himself to relax a little bit. It doesn’t stop his features from looking so stormy, and it doesn’t do much for the tension lining his shoulders. “I just…” he starts, then trails off.

Clover waits patiently.

Qrow exhales again, wavering. “I want a drink so bad,” he admits. “Sometimes I want it so bad I can’t think about anything else.” He won’t meet Clover’s eyes, just lifts one of his hands to study. His fingers shake. Then, miserably, “I didn’t think this would be easy, but…I don’t know. Thought I’d be better than this by now.” 

Clover looks at Qrow’s hand too. He wants to take it in his own, but Qrow had asked him to sit with him, not hold him, so he won’t. Hesitantly, he asks, “How long have you been sober?”

“A few weeks I guess,” Qrow mumbles. “Since we got here.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Saying it out loud…doesn’t sound like much.”

“Are you kidding?” Clover blurts. When Qrow glances at him, frowning and curious, he presses, “Qrow, that’s a joke, right?”

“No?” Qrow answers, like a question. 

“You’re too hard on yourself,” Clover says, astounded. He leans forward, trying to look Qrow in the eye. “Qrow, staying sober without any help isn’t  _ small.  _ That takes an incredible amount of resilience and self-control.” 

Qrow’s eyes widen a fraction before his brows knit, and he looks away again. “I know that,” he says, voice rough with frustration. “I know that. I just…I know better. I know what drinking does to me. And I like being clear-headed. I like feeling  _ solid. _ I like feeling like…like I deserve having my nieces look up to me. If they saw me like this…” he trails off, then exhales and runs a hand through his bangs again. 

“I think they’d be proud of you.”

Qrow looks up.

“You didn’t drink, right?” Clover asks, and then, because he can’t help it, reaches out and brushes Qrow’s mussed bangs back from his brow. “You’re not flushed.”

Qrow blinks at him, and  _ now  _ he’s flushed. “I didn’t,” he says, shoulders hunching ever so slightly. 

Clover withdraws his hand, thinking the tension meant the touch was unwelcome, only to find himself confused when Qrow’s frown deepens. He dismisses it for now; he can think on it later. “Then I think they’d be proud of you,” he murmurs. “I am, for what it’s worth.”

Qrow studies his face for a while. Clover isn’t sure what he’s looking for—maybe a sign of untruth or pity—but all he’ll find is open honesty. After a moment, Qrow offers him a smile, wavering but genuine. “Thanks,” he says.

Clover feels his own smile stretching a little wider. He looks away so he won’t make a fool of himself somehow, and his eyes fall to the mirror again, its pieces still littering the floor. He nods at it. “You want help cleaning that up?”

Qrow looks at him a while longer before following his gaze. “…Yeah,” he says, then huffs a laugh, little humor in it. “Leave it to me to break a mirror, huh? Guess seven years isn’t much compared to a lifetime, but…” 

Clover’s brows knit again.  _ There you go again,  _ he wants to say.  _ Resigning yourself to it.  _ Instead, he says firmly, “Broken mirrors aren’t bad luck, Qrow. They’re just mirrors.” 

Qrow turns away. 

_ Not this time, look at me, let me prove you wrong.  _ He leans forward again. He needs Qrow to realize this. He says softly, “And you are so much more than your semblance. I’ve only known you a few weeks now, and I can already tell you’re incredible.”

Qrow huffs again, but this time the tips of his ears are red. This time, with a raised brow and a slowly returning smile, there’s amusement in his voice. “Flattering me a little there, aren’t you, wonder boy?” 

“It’s not flattery,” Clover insists, half-stuck on  _ wonder boy  _ and amazed that he doesn’t stutter. “You think I’d want someone mediocre for my partner?” 

Qrow pauses, considering that, then lifts his hand again to look at his fingers. The shake is still there, but smaller now, near gone. “No one’s wanted me for a partner in a long time,” he admits.

Clover grins, elbowing his side gently. “Yeah?” he asks. “Then how’s it feel to be partners with the smartest Huntsman in the world?” 

There’s a long, terrible pause where Qrow just stares at him, and Clover is left to wonder if his joke fell flat. And then Qrow laughs, a little puff of breath at first, like he’s reluctant to pat Clover’s ego, before it dissolves into something dangerously near a giggle. Clover feels his heart just about leap into his throat. 

“It feels pretty damn good,” Qrow says finally, wiping a tear from his eye with the butt of his palm. 

Clover isn’t sure if that tear is from the laughter or the venting, so he gets up from the floor and offers Qrow his hand. “Lets clean up,” he says.

Qrow meets his eyes, and Clover dares to think he looks a little fond. After a moment, Qrow takes his hand and lets Clover help him to his feet.


End file.
